July 16, 2007

I haven't even remotely come close to transferring all my posts (because I have to do each on manually!! UGH!!) But, the new posts will be on the new blog, as well as hopefully all my old ones. It's just a ton of work!!

July 11, 2007

So, let me preface this little tale by stating that Martin was in the kitchen making sandwiches. COLD sandwiches.

Now, we have a small kitchen. For some reason, Martin had the front burner of the stove on. Since he was making sandwiches....well, not really necessary.

But, regardless....I was looking in the fridge for something, and he was leaning back, being a sarcastic little butt about something.

Did I mention he was leaning back?

Against the stove?

The stove that was ON (for some unknown reason)?

Yeah, I think you see where this is going.

Anyhow, knowing him as I do, I reached back and pushed him forward, saying something along the lines of "Martin, scoot up, you're going to set yourself on fire."

Then, he turned around.

The next words out of my mouth were "In fact....you did. You might want to put yourself out." (Said w/ respective drollness, I might add.)

He craned around to look at his back, said a few choice swear words, and went running, flaming, through our house, trying to extricate himself from the fiery shirt of death. My daughter is screaming, Martin is panicking, I'm in between laughter and minor worry, and his friend, who is visiting, is staring at the whole scene w/ eyes as wide as saucers.

Martin managed to rip off the shirt, throw it on the floor, and both men pounced on it, putting it out w/ myriads of stomps.

Queue laughter.

After we'd managed to breathe again, he looked at me, and said "You're going to put this in your blog, aren't you?"

July 07, 2007

At any rate, I'm going crazy not working. This lack of wondering how we're going to pay stuff is killing me. I broke down and put my application in at the local big box grocery store. For those of you that know me, you know that I vowed never to work grocery again.

Right now, I don't care. I just need money.

Also, I've slammed my kneecap into like 20 things in the last day, and now I can barely straighten it.

July 03, 2007

I'm picky about which ones I read. Cowboys do nothing for me, nor do I like cops, firemen, or military types.

All in all, modern romances make me roll my eyes, and nearly gag. I'm really not a romantic, most of the time.

However, there is something about the historical ones. Maybe it's some sort of throwback from my youth, of being forced to watch PBS, and countless British Period Dramas....

At any rate, I do read the historical ones, and there are some author's that I swear by...that write funny, smart and engaging books.

But, for some reason, a lot of the historical writers seem to get all "purple prose" when it comes to describing the sex scenes. Seriously, sometimes it's so ridiculous, that I sit there and laugh hysterically, when I KNOW that's not the reaction they were trying to invoke. I mean, come on...."her HONEYPOT"??

I ran across one the other day....that actually said "his steaming jet of love." Um, seriously? STEAMING? Does he have a disease?? I swear, sometimes I sit there thinking "Do they REALLY think that was a good description? Could we have not come up with something a little less cheesy?"

So, it's actually become a bit of a joke w/ me and the neighbor girls, as they read a lot of romances, too. If we find a particularly horrible description, we'll immediately relate it to each other, laughing hysterically.

So, tonight, we were out lighting early fireworks for the kids, when one of the girls saw me holding a Roman Candle as it was showering its cascade of sparks from the end. She laughed, and said something about that being a good description for a love scene, and it took us like 2 seconds to come up with THIS winner:

"His Roman Candle of love exploded all over her quivering ground bloom flower" (You know, for a 4th of July themed book.)

Until, finally, the suspect would scream "ALL RIGHT, I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!! I DID IT!! I DID IT!!!"

This happened for quite awhile. Always the same....ClickClickClick.

So, this morning, I wake up, and in my haziness, realize that Martin has been playing Diablo all night on the computer in the bedroom, and the clicking that was so perversely invading my dreams, was, in fact, the mouse click.

June 18, 2007

So, Friday morning, about 7:30 I hear Martin's phone ring. I don't get to it in time, but I see it's from his mom in California, and she left a message.

I check the message, and it's all "Hi martin, this is your mom. I'm in the Sacramento airport right now, and will be up there in a few hours. Your sister is picking me up. I'll call you when I get in."

AAAAAAAAGH!!

How's that for notice? So, I'm looking around my thrashed house/yard and silently panicking. She calls later that night, and says she's coming to visit us on Sunday.

One day.

ONE DAY to get everything ship-shape.

She owns this place, you see....

So, Saturday consisted of OVERHAULING the inside of my house, and overhauling the yard. My poor neighbor was out on her hands and knees digging up the front, raking up pine needles, mowing, edging, you name it. In short, we worked our asses off. By Saturday night, we were exhausted, but looking at what we accomplished, thinking "whoo hoo!". (and I totally forgot to get before/after pics)

So, fast forward to Sunday. His mom shows up late afternoon, and is here for about 2 hours, before she heads back to his sister's. TWO HOURS PEOPLE!! I am sore in muscles I didn't even know I had for a TWO HOUR VISIT!!

So, later that night, I go to borrow something from our neighbor, and she asked if Martin's mom was still here.